


The Art of Intimacy

by Moira_Lathal



Category: Cowboy Bebop (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26330728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moira_Lathal/pseuds/Moira_Lathal
Summary: A series of wildly self-indulgent character exploration vignettes for one femme fatale and mysterious bounty hunter.(This is technically a part of the Starlight Symphony series, but since it's going to jump all over the plot, I didn't feel the need to tag it in the series. You don't REALLY need to to have read the other works to read this (as of yet), but I may mention or like off-handedly reference different scenes from time to time)
Relationships: Spike Spiegel/Faye Valentine
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	1. The Truth in His Fingertips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intimacy comes in many forms, and develops over time. These moments are slow, but they are necessary steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first vignette focuses on the developing closeness during Return to Me, Space Cowboy. No specific moments referenced, but in general the feelings in these chapters: 'Smoke and Stars,' 'Daylight and Night Silences,' 'Kiss from a Rose,' and 'Prove it in the Daylight.'

When you begin to care for someone, you find it’s the little moments that become the most significant. No amount of passion, exuberant declarations or trinkets to indicate a future of promises can outmatch the power of the little moments.

These moments represent the unspoken, which to some is the most significant. Silent prayers and secrets, breaths in the dark that encompass the soul and weave soft melodies into the heart. These moments are the life force of all relationships, romantic or otherwise, and have been for centuries. We may not acknowledge this truth, but it lingers in the stillness of pulling someone close, just to hold them or feel their heartbeat. This truth stirs in memories, in thoughtless habits and morning rituals that become instinct between two people who grow together in such a way.

To Faye, this truth resides in his fingertips.

She’s not sure when touch became a familiarity between them. Even before his death, they’d spent more than enough time in close quarters to not give too much of a damn about personal space. They were bitter roommates, if anything else, and as all roommates can attest, there was little point in being overly ambitious with attempts at modesty.

Touch in those days was bumping elbows as they passed in the hall, back to back in the middle of a hunt, or a mad scramble if one pissed off the other. Faye’d clambered onto his back more than once, yelling in his ear as he struggled to escape and shouted back. Sharing a smoke on the bridge, their fingers brushing as they passed a lighter between them. The contact was unremarkable, truly ordinary, to be forgotten in seconds and repeated for days. It was just the way they were, in those days.

Their worlds changed with their hearts, and the touch changed as well. What looked to be ordinary became an indication of this new and growing intimacy. 

Perhaps it began in their nighttime wanderings. Shoulder to shoulder, merely living in the sight of the stars and never imagining any significance to the closeness. There was escape from night terrors in the presence of another, and what little touch there was was a reminder that they weren’t alone. Shoulder to shoulder, where each was alive and present and awake to experience an existence that wasn’t their own broken soul.

Maybe it was the more obvious choice, when they began to linger side by side to sleep, hoping the other’s presence would bring the peace into their dreams. Fingers clasped, hesitant and uncertain, too proud to admit the need and too lonely to let go. Hands held in darkness, convincing themselves they were merely reassuring the other as they drifted off. Fingers led to arms as their sleeping minds brought them closer together, to grasp at the warmth when cold hearts and the crashing waves of memories threatened to drown them. Eventually they grew tangled, soft and innocent and wholly oblivious that such touch could mean so much and so little in the same breath. Those moments were mutual release from fear, the act of holding another being just enough to drive away heartache, if for a short while.

These memories are kind to Faye, even attached to so much misery and broken nights, because they led to forgiveness of selves, and to reconciliation to each other. Touch passed between them, friend to foe to friend again, and settled justly in time. It became acknowledged, and accepted, and over time, quietly appreciated.

Even with the kindness, Faye tries not to dwell too much on the memories. The present is far more appealing.

Spike’s fingers reflect his personality. They’re lazy things, always ghosting her hip and brushing hair from her face, soft and careless… or perhaps just careful enough. When there’s others around, he’s consistent, hands shoved in his pockets and a slight tilt to his head; his eyes are always rolling or half-closed as he doesn’t bother himself too much with thinking. But if enough heads are turned, Faye can sense him over her shoulder, and feel his fingers _just_ brushing her back. Spike bumps her in the hall, a gentle nudge with his elbow to turn her head. He meets her eyes with a smile, and shrugs as he turns away from her red cheeks and forced scowl. These are little moments, when he grips her elbow to keep her from missing a step on the stairs, or nudges her ankle as they sit side by side on the couch, that Faye feels in her skin for the rest of the day.

When they are alone, the touch is many things. It’s comfort and exploration, adventurous _and_ tender in the stillness. Intimacy comes in many forms, and Faye finds him first to be oddly considerate, learning her limits quickly and staying well behind the line. Spike keeps shirts and sheets between them, but wraps her in his arms if asked, without thought or hesitation. His embrace is warm and firm, his fingers brushing her skin with delicacy she’d never thought to imagine from him. She breathes against his neck, and he runs his fingers through her hair in response, the only necessity between them just to be present and alive. Touch in these times is simple, and most importantly, lacking in expectations.

When the time comes, there will be skill in his fingertips.

But intimacy comes in many forms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so thoroughly self-indulgent I was going to wait, but it's something a little different and I wanted to see what people thought.
> 
> It'll be a while before I do another one but because chapter 3 of Street Beat Soliloquy is specifics-heavy, I needed to take a breather and write something for myself, and I'm very happy with this little different exploration. At this point in their story, while they ARE learning intimacy and have the Inklings of the #feelings, I want to firmly establish how... they just need to see each other as people. As friends, first. There's a lot of baggage between these two, and while I have created the PERFECT disaster in having them be cuddle buddies to chase nightmares away, that's genuinely where they are right now. They are two friends, Learning. And that's important to me, for this story.


	2. Ask Me Quietly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon on tumblr asked:
> 
> How would faye answer to spike asking  
> “Can I be the little spoon?”
> 
> And then my hand slipped.

_“Faye.”_

_“Mmmm, shaddup Spike. I’m sleeping.”_

His arm retreated from around her side. _“Faye... please.”_

Faye groaned, but nevertheless rubbed some of the sleep from her eyes. That please... almost inaudible. A mumble in the darkness. Faye rolled over, squinting blearily at Spike by her side. He lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling and a distracted furrow to his brow.

_“What’s the matter?”_ she murmured, stifling a yawn.

Spike turned his head, barely meeting her eyes. He didn’t reply at first, merely searching her face and pursing his lips, before he closed his eyes with a sigh. Hesitantly, Faye touched his shoulder. _“You okay?”_

He turned his head towards the touch, his eyes remaining closed. _“... I don’t know.”_

_“... Do you need anything?”_

More uncertain silence. Faye watched him, trying to decipher the barely-concealed tension, the reluctance to speak. Finally, Spike grunted, rolling onto his side with a frustrated sigh. _“Fuck. I... can’t... Never mind. Go back to sleep, I’m just being stupid.”_

Faye blinked in surprise. Spike adjusted his arm under his pillow, the whole of his body curling inwards. She’d never seen him like this, so obviously wanting to speak but just... giving up on the words. What couldn’t he say? What would Spike feel too stupid to ask?

\----

_Pride can be both a powerful weapon and a hindrance to kindness. It keeps us bold, keeps us strong, but it can quell soft urges or requests it deems too foolish to even speak aloud._

_The only hope against pride is stubbornness, someone equally as bold but more curious to let pride’s silence be_ _the last word in the darkness._

\----

Faye edged forward, slowly resting a hand on Spike’s back. _“Spike... do you want me to hold you?”_

Spike tensed under her fingertips, a muffled grumble too quiet to be understood. But he didn’t say no. That was enough for Faye.

Easing her arm around his side, Faye pulled herself close, pressing her forehead into his back. Spike remained silent, but his hand moved to encompass her own, lacing their fingers together in the silence. Faye smiled as his legs adjusted against her own; they were properly tangled in seconds. After a moment, Spike sighed. _“... Thank you.”_

_“Next time, I’m going to make you say it,”_ Faye whispered, brushing his hand lightly with her thumb. _“Please only works once.”_

_“Fuck you.”_

_“Good night, Spike.”_

_“... Good night, Faye.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another wildly self-indulgent little piece. It's short but it's Something and I'm gonna be writing the rest of the day so idegaf. Thank you anon again I know you probably wanted comedy but it is Angst Central bc I don't know if Spike's pride would ever allow him to just... fucking ASK LIKE AN ADULT THAT YOU WANNA BE THE LITTLE SPOON COME ON MAN IT'S NOT THAT HARD.
> 
> Ah well :D Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Touch Starved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *thinks about writing plot*  
> MMMMMMMMMMMMMMM unless? I wrote what my heart is thinking about and that eventually leads to good plot writing?  
> Let's see if this works 
> 
> Chapters referenced in this one-shot:Chap. 17: Smoke and Stars, Chap. 20: Drifting Ships- Return to Me, Space Cowboy

_What’s it like, to seek out touch?_

Spike’s never been one for such displays of affection. He keeps his distance, respects the space, partially in order to respect his own space. Touch never came naturally. At least, he never thought it did, a long time ago. 

Touch usually implied pain. His arm under Vicious’ shoulder, keeping him upright; a bandage being wrapped around his chest, unable to think through the agony and the echo of a gunshot; bracing himself on Annie’s counter and feeling her fingers brush the hair from his forehead, just to make sure his eyes were open.

Nobody touched him without pain, except Julia. Even then… it wasn’t much.

Julia wasn’t one for public displays, and with good reason. With their lives, their world, and Vicious, they would travel together, linger together, but never touch. Not to hold hands, to bump shoulders and be close, nothing. It wasn’t instinct, to touch, except in the pain. They touched to make love, and the bliss lingered in memories, but the heartache of loss tainted even that.

Spike tries not to dwell on the past; whatever happens, happens, and he lives on in spite of it all.

But touch is no kindness in memory. Touch is heartache and a reminder of pain. Touch is not instinct, it is necessity to survive, but only just. When it is no longer a necessity, it withdraws. 

To Spike, touch is a tool. A tool he does not use often.

\----

Faye’s comfortable with touch. She grips and grabs, snatches what she wants and kicks the couch out of frustration, clambers onto Spike’s shoulders and wraps bandages around his wounds while he’s unconscious yet again. Touch isn’t foreign, it’s just another part of life.

No one touches her without permission. A handshake, brushed fingers and cocked hips, it’s all calculated, and even the men she seduces just to turn in for a bounty don’t get a hand in without her say-so. Faye limits physical interaction; she’s comfortable with touch, but more importantly she controls it.

When she finds him collapsed on the stairs, touch is thoughtless and frantic. A desperate grip and a strangled sob to save a life, touch is a necessity and it doesn’t matter that there’s blood, it doesn’t matter that he’s heavy as hell and his eyes are dangerously closed. She has to hold him and he _has_ to stay alive.

As he sleeps, touch fights fear. Faye runs her fingers through his hair, simple contact with repetition that calms her nerves. The touch is a reminder.

He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive.

And he lives. Spike lives and secretly, quietly she misses the touch, but it doesn’t matter.

And why would the touch matter? It was just touch. A simple part of life, nothing more.

To Faye, touch is an acquaintance, familiar and unremarkable.

\----

When did it become natural, to touch?

Spike sees the change suddenly, in a night of smoke and stars. It’s a surprise, but not as big a surprise as he thinks it should be. When they talk, when she hugs him, it feels nice, and more shockingly… normal. Normal in a strange way.

Memories are foggy, from when he was asleep, but there’s a feeling that he misses, of what he thinks to be a hand in his hair, fingers brushing his cheek. A will beyond his comprehension, but his skin remembers.

As time passes, his skin yearns for more, and he unconsciously begins to seek it.

It’s a foreign experience, but Spike is timid. Or… maybe that’s not the right word. Uncertain. Instinctual.

Whatever the case, he’s new to touch, and listens to his gut when it pushes. It pushes him closer to Faye, closer to her space and closer to her touch. Bumped shoulders instead of edging around her. His space is changing, and it’s strange but he finds the contact new and interesting. Spike even imagines he likes it, sometimes, when they brush close in the galley, or sit side by side during meals. 

It’s new and strange, how much he wants to be close, and he can’t figure out what it means.

When Faye holds his hand, it’s warm. Spike feels his hand growing a little clammy but he’s never held a hand this long before, and he doesn’t really give a damn as he falls asleep.

And when he wakes up, Faye fits perfectly in his arms. How strange, to feel so warm and close. 

The only time he’d felt similar was sex with Julia, but that had a purpose. A goal. A motive. He loved her, and she loved him. They had sex, and she held him. When the sun rose, they were close, but… it was never casual touch. Public displays weren’t safe, and even in private, it just wasn’t in her nature.

Faye… Why does she hold him?

Why does she run her fingers through his hair, like it's the most natural thing in the world? Why does she touch his arm, bump next to him in the stillness when they're just sitting and talking? They're alone, but it feels public, wide open and to the world. Why does she hold him in the stillness? When she awakes, why does she press a hand to his chest? To feel his heartbeat?

Is it to remind herself that he was alive? He'ss breathing, what more reminder could she need?

Spike never stops asking these questions, even when they come to an agreement. To hold each other and let it help. To not fight touch and its gifts.

It's probably just to help herself, anyway. That's what he tells himself, as he grips her fingers. Greedy Faye, always taking, because that’s who she is---

_“I’m holding you. To remind you that I’m still here. That we’re all still here, and we want you to be here, too.”_

Spike wonders in the stillness, in the darkness as she sleeps. She’d told him why, but it still feels foreign. Touch is a gift he’d never received with such freedom.

He’s surprised to find he likes it. 

Spike wants to touch. To hold and be held, and let it help. 

Even simple touch is addicting. It feels strange, a little silly even, but he wants to hold her hand, brush the hair from her face just to see her glare with more clarity. Bumped shoulders and brushed elbows, sitting in the silence and just fucking holding eachother, even just to grip her fingertips in the otherwise stillness.

Because it feels like it should be natural. Nothing in his world has felt so right, and the more he learns it, the more he yearns for it. 

It’s hard to break old habits, to fight the urge to slink away like he did before, but he wants to break them. Spike reaches out for new instincts, instincts to touch in natural moments.

Spike only touches with permission, or he tries to. When she needs to be held but can’t find the words, it’s the hardest to withdraw. His heart is pounding, frustrated beyond belief at any feelings of helplessness, because he can’t touch her. He won’t, without permission.

As soon as Faye can speak, or beckons him through her tears, he is present in an instant. Spike holds her close, gentle and insistent and it helps them both. Her tears recede, and his heart eases. And it’s no small comfort that even when she’s no longer in pain, Faye remains close. Her fingers press against his skin through his shirt, and Spike lives in the touch, even separated. Because she’s holding him back. She doesn’t let go, and neither does he.

Every inch of his skin remembers touch and craves it, because it no longer means pain or heartache.

Touch is comfort. Touch is warmth and reminder of life.

Touch is a friend, now. Touch will not go unanswered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spike speaks through his eyes, and eventually, he speaks through touch. In the show, I noticed he was actually pretty withdrawn (like he doesn't actually bump into people unless there's a purpose, and that's mostly bounties or people he's trying to pick-pocket). He always slides around people and moves Himself to get around people in the halls.
> 
> So what's this mean? Ya boy was touch starved in the past and you KNOW I'mma use that for my dastardly plans of the future :D


	4. Only a Matter of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is many things.

The most honest truth of existence we can accept as humans is how unkind time can be to the soul. We think time helps to ease heartache. We think enough seconds passing will allow us to forget the past, to let it go and that our souls will heal in time, but that’s hope masquerading as fact.

Time is unkind. Hearts and souls remain weary, through the healing.

  
Time is especially unkind when we are alone.

\----------------------------

Faye’s time is her curse. Ripped from time by fate, she chooses to drift through space. To float, for fear that if she lands, heartache will crush as easily as gravity. She almost felt it, almost got swept off by betrayal from Prince Charming and his secrets.

Whitney.

He lied.

The only comfort she gained was due to rage. Furious indignation and an immediate self-reliance became fuel, and she flew from heartache, leaning on that fire that keeps her afloat.

If she lands, heartache could crush her as easily as gravity.

Faye imagines the weight in her chest, pushes it back and forth, until it reaches her fists. She can throttle the pain; a good punch to a bounty’s jaw will surely ease heartache.

If she can feel pain in her hands, it’ll be a small price to pay for hindering the pain in her heart.

\----------------------------

Time is the illusion of patience. Seconds pass, and we wait, wait for the time to return what was lost, to return what once was ours.

Spike waited. Time passed and he waited, to run into darkness. To chase freedom. He waited so he wouldn’t be alone.

He waited for her.

Julia.

Time is cruel to those who wait, more so to those who wait fruitlessly.

Spike doesn’t wait anymore. He doesn’t dwell on the past, because whatever happens, happens. He has no time for fallen rose petals, unheard footsteps in a downpour that shows no sign of easing.

Time passes with or without him, so he chooses to flow with it. To linger would mean time is catching up to him, and he has no time for that.

Spike has no time to linger because he _is_ time. Thoughtless and breathless, chasing after misty blue eyes that taunt him and tempt him. He can’t dwell on the past because he _must_ push forward, because if he chases fast enough, he might just catch her.

But time is cruel. The seconds pass without her, even as he chases.

\----------------------------

Time is boredom. Drifting ships and drifting bounty hunters, working to eat and eating to have the strength to work. They search for bounties and they search in their boredom, for something like a good time or just something to pass the time.

They try not to reflect, but boredom leads the mind to wander.

Faye fights it, reading to fill her mind with something or nothing. Better than the alternative, to think on that which has passed and does not deserve her time or energy. She’s better now, but she’ll never forgive him. Not really. A fractured heart is not so easily mended, and this injury runs deep. 

To compensate, Faye builds walls around her heart, so that she is truly timeless. Her walls are central, they stay in the present and worry not for the crimes of the past. If she must be reminded of them, it’s to focus on the good times, the silly dances and shopping montages that made her feel so beautiful in the moment. The hurt still makes her angry, but she relies on the anger to lead back into joy.

If it didn’t, it would lead elsewhere, something that crushes quite like gravity.

Spike’s mind drifts in and out, thoughtlessness and thoughtful silences all weaving together in a silent cacophony. He has a unique skill, to wander when he wants to, or to let it all float away, as he listens to music or the police scanner or merely the hum of the Bebop around him. Thoughts are easily passable, and time drifts by beside them. 

When time brings heartache, it crashes, but you wouldn’t guess it to look at him. Heartache is contained right where it belongs: on the inside, where no one is able or allowed to see it. His soul is his own business; he learned long ago that revealing it too easily leaves you exposed. Vulnerable. Spike relies on his instincts to keep heartache inside.

If they didn’t, his heartache might leave him exposed, and that is too much to bear alone.

\----------------------------

Time is heartless. It doesn’t care whether or not you want to fight pain inside or out, to lash out against others or bury your heartache as deep inside you as you think you can manage.

Time doesn’t have feelings, but it aches. Time has no eyes, but it watches as we flounder, watches as we scream and bite and cry and lose ourselves to its cruelty. It listens to our secrets, though it cannot hear, because who else would listen to our dreams but time as it passes by?

Faye builds her walls, and sees them crashing down, heart aching as he leaves.

Spike chases his time, and watches her as she falls, holds her in his arms as she fades.

And in the hall of the Bebop, at the end of it all, as the real folk blues play, time… freezes.

\----------------------------

_“Where are you going?_ **_Why_ ** _are you going? What are you going to do? Throw your life away like it was nothing?”_

\----------------------------

In the blink of an eye it all… stops mattering.

Heartache. Betrayal. Lost love and lost life. One behind bars, one below the ground.

Time freezes and they stand, eye to eye.

He allows this one moment to be vulnerable, because he imagines it’s all over, anyway.

She allows this one moment to be grounded, and it aches like a son of a bitch.

\----------------------------

The Bebop lives on, but there is a price to life, renewed.

That price is... more time.

And, as we all know, time is unkind. It has no feelings, no pity for human emotions and lingering aches. It passes and it listens as we pour our secrets out on wet cement, and scream bloody murder that it could freeze at such an inopportune time, but pass when we need it to freeze the most.

We don’t get to choose frozen moments. We have no choice, but we pass through time.

The most honest truth of existence we can accept as humans is how unkind time can be to the soul. 

But… it can also be said that time is patience, and patience leads to healing.

Hearts and souls remain weary, through the healing, but they may heal nonetheless. Hearts and souls heal, through time. They never return to a time before they were broken, but they heal, new and strange and similar to the past.

Past, present, and future… they’re siblings. Sisters in arms, a wave of heartache crashing against built up walls.

\----------------------------

They will never heal each other. That is a truth time needs not speak aloud.

It takes time to heal. To flow through and learn to live beyond a crashing wave. To let walls recede, not to break them. Time is patience, it passes with or without us, but we can flow with it if we choose to.

Time is especially unkind when we are alone, but if you stop and listen, you’ll find you’re never alone.

They cannot heal each other, but they are not alone as they heal. And that helps.

Time is not always kind. But it listens. 

It sees us breathe and live beyond a faraway staircase.

It aches as we learn to live, learn to grow and thrive and regain substance.

Time is heartless, and we really should thank it.

Because of time, we can live together.

It’s only a matter of time before we learn to love again.

And they will. They cannot heal each other, but they will learn to live again.

  
  
  
  


And thus: time becomes beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Me: manages to write a fragment of plot*  
> *Bobbo, my writing beast, sidling into my room four hours late with Starbucks:* Okay but what if you wrote this introspective poetry about time instead? What if you did that instead, huh?
> 
> Listen. LISTEN.  
> ............. My hand slipped.
> 
> You're never alone. Time's a bitch, and grim reminder of a great many things, but don't let time only be heartache. Let it be healing, and it can be kind. It's MOSTLY a bitch, but it can be kind sometimes.
> 
> Tldr; your friendly neighborhood writer got impatient. Here's a lil' angsty Ace of Hearts drabble. I keep trying new things and finding I like writing these drabbles as the plot Evades me *glares at Bobbo*. Thanks for reading!


End file.
